Tango De Roxanne
by Maiden of the South
Summary: ALWLeroux based. What if there was a double in Christine's place the night of Don Juan? A bitter young woman becomes the Phantom's hostage she soon discovers the real man behind the mask. EOW
1. The Twin

**A/N: **This is not your usual mamby-pamby, "Vent all of my sexual frustrations and bitterness in the form of fan fiction" story. I'm doing this story as an exercise for my real writing work. There will be no song-lyrics in this; I trust most of you already know the words to "El Tango de Roxanne", so why the hell should I do the usual sue-stuff? Anyway, this is NOT a Raoul-bashing session, I happen to like Raoul and think he was the sensible choice; any dislike expressed for him is sheerly characterization.

Christine circled around her, shrewdly evaluating the woman's every feature. Their likeness to one another was disturbing.

The woman stood before Christine, her curly brown hair subdued by pins and a rose. Her black corseted torso leaned against the frame of her door. Dark green eyes stared back at Christine with boredom.

"This is Roxanne De Winter, one of our most well-trained female counterparts," Monsieur Montague declared proudly, "She shall take your part in _Don Juan,_ tonight."

Raoul stood in the corner, "My God, Lotte, you never told me you had a twin!" He smiled, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle De Winter." He kissed her hand suavely.

Roxanne smiled tightly, "Thank you, Viscount."

Christine bit her lip nervously. This wasn't going to work. The Phantom had spent months studying everything about her, how could this woman (though the resemblance, once under stage make-up, would indeed be frightening) deceive her Angel? Though she was consciously aware of his humanity; the childish part of her still wanted to believe him to be the god he had once been to her. "This is madness," She muttered.

Raoul turned around, he smiled gently and came to Christine's side, "Don't worry, _ma cherie, _everything shall be fine. The Phantom shall be too intoxicated with the idea of being near his victim. He won't notice."

Christine visibly flinched at the word 'victim', she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against wall, her eyes were unfocused, withdrawn.

Monsieur Montague and the Viscount noted how even Christine and Roxanne stood alike. Both leaning against the wall, arms crossed, drawn inward.

"Trust me, love, everything shall go as planned," Raoul rubbed her arms reassuringly.

Christine smiled weakly, "Things never go as planned."

Raoul did not know how to respond to this, he mirrored her smile before pulling her into an embrace. "Everything is going to be all right, _cherie."_

Christine buried her face into the lapel of his coat.

Roxanne watched the scene detachedly, "I need to be onstage in one half of an hour, if you gentleman would be so kind…"

"Of course, Mademoiselle," Raoul tipped his felt top hat, "Monsieur Montague." The two left, leaving Christine and Roxanne alone in awkward silence.

Roxanne seated herself familiarly at Christine's vanity and began to smear on thick base onto her face. She seemed impervious to Christine.

Christine seated herself in a chair near Roxanne, wringing her hands in her lap. Clearing her throat, she asked quietly, "Do you know all of your lines?"

Roxanne nodded, "Yes. Wasn't too difficult, but the notes, _mon dieu, _you've got to have an amazing vocal range."

She looked down at the floor, a smile gracing her features, "Thank you."

Roxanne dipped brush into a cup of ochre; she rubbed the color into her cheeks. She dipped her finger into a pot of lip-paint, applying it to her face with ease, her face stoic.

"How did you become a…" Christine struggled to find the word to describe Roxanne's job description.

"Just call me a double," Roxanne supplied, "It was either this or the dungeons. I was a prostitute who knew too much about one of my well-to-do customers, but the gendarmes needed me."

Christine disguised her surprise, "Ah," Several minutes of silence passed, "Alto or soprano?"

"Pardon? Oh, yes, alto," Roxanne said, "Lucky for you, I used to sing in taverns when I was younger."

"Yes, lucky…" Christine said half-heartedly, staring into space.

"Does Monsieur Le Fantôme have any particular ways he…recognizes you? A secret word or gesture, perhaps?" Roxanne asked, lining her eyes with kohl in the mirror.

"What? Oh, er, no; I don't think, anyway. My angel—I mean, Monsieur Le Fantôme, has spent all of my life looking after me, I suppose he would be able to recognize me through my mannerisms, and of course, my voice," she sighed, "Which is why I am going to be behind stage throwing my voice…"

Roxanne nodded and continued to apply kohl onto her eyes; once finished, she surveyed her work in the mirror, "Ugh, you stage actors, the stuff you put on your faces is obscene."

"I recommend you remove it immediately after your…performance," Christine said, she looked at the clock on the wall, "Oh, my, you had better hurry."

Roxanne cursed under her breath and rose from the settee, "Merci." She pulled a robe on over her _Don Juan_ costume and darted out of the dressing room.

XXX

The Phantom leaned over the rail in the chandelier dome, inspecting the crowd that seethed through the theatre beneath him.

Wealthy aristocrats dressed in proper Opera-attire chattered beneath him.

He was in a foul mood; he always became short-tempered when he was anxious.

He wondered if any of the fools beneath him had any clue of the passion he had poured into this opera, it was his very _soul._ And how casual they were! They chatted of horse raced statistics, what Madame Such-and-such was wearing, how to find good hired help.

He recalled what Christine had told him once, it seemed befitting, "Tonight, I gave you my soul and I am dead_."_ His soul was about to be served up to these fools, these blissfully ignorant fools.

But, the evening would not be unfruitful—No, not by a long shot. His Christine would be near him once more.

_Christine,_ oh, Gods above, Christine, his beautiful, darling Christine; the name was like honey to his lips. Tonight, after many long tortuous years, she was to be his.

Yes, at first, she would be angry, but every fiber of his being knew that eventually she would come to remember her love for him. She would forget about the young Viscomte.

At the thought of the Viscomte De Changy, his leather-gloved grip upon the rail tightened.

The young, impetuous fool, with his dark blue eyes and blond hair, he had _stolen_ Christine. What did he know of his ingénue? Nothing! Christine was to be nothing but another possession to him.

"Let the games begin," The Phantom muttered, spinning on his heel and disappearing through the door.


	2. Green Eyes

**A/N: **My French is extremely rusty; the abbreviation for "monsieur" is "Mssr.", yes? And, er…lyrics are necessary for this next bit, so I take my previous statement back.

XXX

The backstage was tingling with nervous anticipation. All of the stagehands and actors had been informed of what was to happen tonight. Unlike the usual chattering of the ballet rats and the shouting of half-drunk stage technicians, there was an unusual silence amongst them. The only sounds heard was the orders of the prop master and the high-pitched piercing scales Carlotta was attempting to practice.

Roxanne sat perched upon a wooden crate, her legs spread apart lazily; her back slouched against the wall of Dressing Room "A". None of the ballet rats spoke to her. Carlotta, who had been reduced to preparing with the ballet rats, tossed her a haughty look and sniffed disdainfully.

For it was common knowledge that _any_ woman working with the Gendarmerie was a thief, a prostitute, or an adulteress. Or all of the above.

She turned her gaze to the miniature grandfather clock on the wall, five minutes until she was to come out on stage. Five minutes until she was to meet the famed 'Fantôme de L'Opéra'.

She rubbed the plain silver band on her right ring finger thoughtfully; Monsieur Montague had guaranteed she would be safe from the Phantom, but it would not be the first time that Montague had lied to her.

"Mademoiselle De Winter!" Madame Giry barked.

"I'm coming," Roxanne hopped off her perch, "Where's Christine?"

"Behind the left curtain, you are to stand near the left side of the staircase at all times, understood?" Giry demanded, she sighed, "If only they had given us more time to prepare you. Three days to prepare a woman who has never been on stage before in her life! What is my opera house coming to?"

Roxanne refrained from comment and hurried out of the dressing room.

XXX

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy, no dreams within her heart but dreams of love!" Roxanne had almost forgotten the opening line, when Christine began to sing she nearly panicked. She quickly reined herself in check and moved her mouth accordingly.

"Passarino…Go away! For the trap, it is set and waits for its prey…"

Roxanne froze, that voice…it was intoxicating, entrancing, even. She had heard Piangi sing before, _that_ was not his voice. She lifted her head, barely turning, trying not to turn completely, lest she confuse the audience. What was she supposed to do next? Oh, yes! Stand up, you silly goose! She slowly rose to her feet, and turned partially around.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which 'til now has been silent…" His lilting tones echoed throughout the Opera, his voice like honey. His lithe form was partially obscured by the cloak enshrouding his body. He was pale, deathly so, he moved with a strange sort of confidence. Roxanne had seen it before—the confidence of a killer.

"I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge, in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses completely succumbed to me!" He declared possessively.

Yes, Roxanne could completely understand why the young Vicomte wanted to rid his mistress of the Phantom. She stared fixedly at him as he circled about her, like a cat stalking its quarry.

"Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, you've decided…decided…" His golden eyes bored into her with a passion rarely seen by Roxanne.

Roxanne closed her eyes, allowing the seductive warmth of the Phantom's rich baritone to wash over her.

"What raging fires shall flood the soul? What rich desires unlock its door?" Suddenly, the Phantom grabbed her about the waist and pulled her close to him. His hot breath tickled her neck as his lips brushed her shoulder.

Roxanne's breath caught in her throat as he wrapped his arms about her waist. She had been a nightwalker ever since she was fourteen years old, and yet a ghost was able to invoke such reactions from her? Shameful.

She was almost regretful when the Phantom's grasp slid down her arm to her hand, signaling it was her turn. She suddenly felt inadequate, how was she to fool such a master?

XXX

Something wasn't right.

Her mannerisms, something about her wasn't right. He studied her and could tell no visibly apparent difference, and, yet, she was different. Bolder. More impassioned. Not his little angel. Her voice wasn't right at all, either, her posture was inaccurate for her to be able to hit certain notes, her breathing, she was not breathing from her stomach.

Erik, you fool, he chastised himself, you're simply nervous because of the nearness of her.

As they began to climb the stairs, the difference became more apparent, her face, something was different about her face…perhaps it was the stage make-up. As a ballet-rat, before, she had not worn so much. He shook his head slightly, he must enjoy the moment; in minutes she would be his.

"When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom? _When will the flames, at last, consume us!"_ The last verse was strange, her mouth was moving, but the words were different.

Throwing off his cape with a dramatic gesture, they reached the top of the stairs in unison. "Past the point of no return! The final threshold!" They met at the center, empowered by the nearness of her, he seized her about the arms and spun her around gruffly, pinning her back to his chest. His hands wandered up and down her body freely.

"We've past the point of no return…" He crooned, _Oh, Christine…_

As he looked out onto the crowd he noticed the Vicomte—in Box Five, no less—staring down at Christine and himself, he smirked, seized with a sudden idea.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude…" He buried his nose into her neck, "Say you'll want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go, too! Christine, that's all I ask of…"

Christine turned to face him, her green eyes glistening with emotion…green eyes…Green eyes! Christine's eyes were brown. This was not Christine!

The woman realized she had been found out, her face turned ashen and contorted with panic. As if fate itself had planned this, she seized his mask and tore it off, hoping to distract him.

XXX

**A/N: **Recommendations on how I could have improved the scene are welcome.


	3. The Labyrinth

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! I'm afraid this chapter is really short and not very substantial, I was sort of clueless as to how to continue. To warn all of the ALW and Leroux puritans, I'm taking several creative licenses in this particular chapter.

XXX

"Dear God in Heaven…" Roxanne stepped backwards in fright as she soaked in his appearance.

His skin was stretched with unnatural tightness across his face; it had a yellowy cast to it, like a candle. He had no nose, only two nasal cavities, like a bare skull. His golden eyes were sunken deep within their orifices; they were unnaturally bright, like two flames burning with smoldering hate. Hate towards her.

Only the first few rows of the audience could see his face clearly, they recoiled in horror, several screams and masculine curses were heard throughout them.

"You little demon!" The Phantom snarled, "Well, then, my Delilah, you wish to stay with Erik? You only said so much in our song. _I shall grant you your wish!" _His voice bounced off the walls with a God-like intensity throughout the theatre. He threw something on the ground; it hit the 'bridge' with a flash of fire and resounding light, leaving a puff of smoke.

She felt the ground slide out from under her, she was suddenly free-falling with the Phantom pressing himself to her. For a fleeting moment she was sure that they would hit the stage beneath and would break several bones, but strangely, a hole slid back underneath them, allowing them to fall through the stage, as well.

They landed in the prop room beneath the stage, a discarded prop-bed was underneath the hole, they hit the bed with a loud 'thud'. The bed was not meant to hold up to such a shock and the frame promptly splintered and fell to pieces, allowing the mattress to drop to the floor.

Roxanne shrieked in surprise as she tumbled off the bed.

The Phantom growled and jerked her up roughly, continuing through the dusty, dimly-lit prop room.

They could faintly hear the noise of the audience in an uproar above, the sound of thudding feet above them was heard and the shouting of the gendarmes as they inspected the stage.

The Phantom laughed harshly, it was a strange, mirthless noise. Like the noise of lightning when it struck something living.

A stone statuette of an angel stood on a table in the corner of the room.

He went to the table and removed the angel, a button was nestled in a hole in the table; he pressed it. A mirror on the other side of the room slid back, revealing a darkened passageway.

He dragged her through the passageway, pulling a torch that hung in a sconce on the side of the dark, slimy wall, the mirror slid back.

Roxanne kicked and screamed, trying desperately to escape his grasp, but the vise-like grip he had on her arm did not loosen. She refused to die at the hands of this monster!

He stopped and spun on her, his golden eyes glowing with fury. "Shut up, chienne! You do not realize whom you trifle with!" He struck her soundly across the face, the blow was so hard that she would have been thrown against the wall had his grip on her not caught her.

She whimpered and fell into a silence, brokenly trailing behind him.

The only sound in the gloomy hallway was that of her footsteps and the sound of dripping water.

She could not see anything in the damnable darkness, save for a pair of fire-bright golden eyes. They were unnerving; they didn't belong to a man, or an animal. Roxanne could understand why the Daaè-girl thought him to be something otherworldly; those golden eyes filled her with an unexplainable mixture of emotions. The current mixture seemed to be more fear than anything else.

She limped and stumbled along in the darkness, nursing the wounds she had sustained during her fall. She hurried to keep up with the Phantom and his death-grip on her arm. The noise of commotion and chaos was growing steadily more distant.

He muttered angrily to himself in a language Roxanne did not understand, it sounded faintly Middle-Eastern.

One thing she could be thankful for in the darkness was that she could not see his face. Oh, why had she ever taken his mask?!

_God, in heaven, protect me!_ She prayed wordlessly.

Roxanne sorely regretted ever pulling the mask off, for the rest of her life—that is, if she lived long enough to have one—she would remember that face.

She could feel that the hall they were going through was inclined downwards; the air was steadily becoming cooler. They were going underground…? She had heard rumors around Paris that the monster within the Opera Garnier lurked underneath the opera house, living in the sewers.

Roxanne shuddered, what was he going to do to her down there? Even in the darkness, it was very obvious that he was fighting the urge to kill her right then and there, so she did her best to keep quiet. Terror was threatening to overwhelm her; God knows no one would ever be able to find her in this vast underground beneath the theater. What would the Phantom do to her once they arrived at their destination? She was wise enough tot know that death was not the worst of fates that could possibly await her.

Not for the first time did she regret accepting the gendarmes offer of 'help.' A dark cell or a flogging seemed much more appealing than this life, at the moment.

XXX

A light flurry of snow was coming down upon Paris, covering the dirt of the city in a thin blanket; temporarily disguising the filth of the inhabitants and emphasizing the beauty of the city's architecture.

On a night like this, Christine would ordinarily be out on the rooftop, playing like a child with the other chorus girls.

But tonight was—in no way, shape or form—an ordinary evening.

Tonight, she stared in horror from the cobbled street in front of the Opera Garnier as her home, her _life_ burned.

All because of her angel.

There was a cruel sort of irony to it, the man who had given her the greatest gift she had ever received—her voice—and had done his best to ensure her future was the one who was destroying all that she had called home.

Little Giry had suffered serious burns and was being rushed to an infirmary. Carlotta, the woman whom she had despised for the most part of her life, had died beside her lover, refusing to leave his corpse.

Raoul, thankfully, had managed to escape unharmed, he was leading the search party underneath the opera house.

Carlotta, Piangi Little Giry, and countless others had suffered because of Erik's brash decision. But at the same time, she felt like she was the one who ought to have been punished. Erik had never known love, and, admittedly, Christine had offered him little of it, but more than he had ever experienced. It was only natural he would do what he could to protect it.

God in heaven, what had she done?

It was because of her that all of these people were dead. Stupid, silly, superstitious creature, she was, she had wishfully fooled herself into thinking this fallen angel was innocent in his intentions.

In a way, she almost hoped he and Mademoiselle De Winter would not be found. She knew that was a cruel thought, but she knew her Erik, he wouldn't kill a woman, but he wouldn't let her go, either. Perhaps, although it was a very childish and wishful thought, perhaps he could find a companion in her.

"God," She whispered into the wind, "Protect my Erik, keep him safe and…help him. Oh, God, please, help him…"

XXX

Torchlight flickered and danced across the rough stone walls of the cavernous catacomb ceiling, creating strange, deformed shadows.

The mob was in an unusually deathly silence, as if afraid to speak lest that devil, _the Phantom_ and his legion of demons swoop down upon them.

The Vicomte swore that if it were the very last thing he did (and it very well could be) he would rid the Earth, more specifically Christine, of that hideous monster.

When he thought of all of the grief and terror _the Phantom_ had caused _his_ Christine, it made his blood boil. That dirty, deceitful bastard! And now, he had another woman in his grasp.

Raoul looked around at the men about him, their faces smeared with soot from the fire, the firelight distorting their faces grotesquely.

Sighing, a sorry ragtag band they were, Raoul mused. Where was the Persian when he needed him? The Daroga Nadir seemed to have disappeared before the opera began, he had seen him briefly before. Who knows where the man was? Perhaps the Phantom had found him and finished his long-time acquaintance once and for all.

Raoul said a quick prayer for the man's soul, Moslem or no, he would need all the help he could get in this Godless opera house.

His thoughts returned to the woman the Phantom had kidnapped. The Vicomte sighed regretfully, his plan had failed and the poor woman had to suffer for it. Although of all the women to have kidnapped, a…lady of the night was about as ideally suited as they might come, he would still do his best to recover the poor woman.

But things were looking bleak.

They had been underground for over three hours and they had yet to find anything. They were marking their path with red paint, lest they lose their way.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" One of the men piped up.

"Yes?" Raoul answered irritably.

Instead of answering, he pointed to a mark on the stony granite wall, a red stripe.

"_Merde,"_ He muttered, "That's the second one we've encountered in thirty minutes.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Monsiuer le Vicomte, but we should return with more men, in the mornin'. The men are dead-tired and most of them are so scared of the Phantom they wouldn't know what to do if we did meet up with the Opera Ghost, sir," The man bowed shortly to soften the frankness of his words.

Raoul grudgingly had to admit their was truth to his words, and, afterall, the woman _was_ naught but a street urchin. He reprimanded himself for such thoughts, the woman was a human just like himself, one of God's creatures. The thought of what the perverted monster would probably do to her made his skin crawl, "Very well, we shall return to the surface and will get more men. Hopefully, the gendarmes' search party has had more luck searching for the woman."

The last sentence sounded hollow even to Raoul's ears.

XXX


	4. The Ride

**A/N:** Man, I'd forgotten how much I enjoy writing fan fiction, it's been a long time since I've worked on stuff like this.

XXX

_Damn, damn, damn!_ The black rage that was boiling inside of him begged to be unleashed; his hand itched for his lasso, which hung concealed under his coat. It took a great deal of his strength to not throttle the woman beside hi,.

The mob had come dangerously close to finding them, once; so close that the cavern they were in lightened a little bit by their torches.

In his frenzied state he had almost panicked. His mind was whirlwind of emotions and thoughts, the most predominant of the latter being: _how could she do this to me?_

His angel! His sweet, sweet Christine! She had betrayed him! All because of that _boy._ His heart ached and screamed; how could she? After all he had given her! Love, gifts, a blossoming career! He had hardly asked for anything in return!

And what of this…this…wench?! He would have loved to kill her, she was probably a mistress of the esteemed Vicomte or his brother, Philippe. How could he have been so stupid as to think she was Christine? He felt like an ass.

He had let his emotions run away with him, had entertained the thought that Christine had actually _wanted_ him. Ha! What a fool he had been. She, nor any other woman, could ever love a monster like him.

His lake never seemed more welcoming. The Phantom had the fleeting fancy to throw the woman into the water to leave her as a present for the siren. A pleasant idea, but there was no time.

The bluish light illuminated the particular spot that concealed the Rue Scribe entrance; he dragged the woman behind him, and kicked the stone. There was a 'click' and the stone slid away to reveal the entrance.

He had taken the time to light the passageway with torches, he had planned to go through it with Christine once they made their escape. He didn't want her to trip in the dark and injure herself.

The Phantom smiled bitterly, reprimanded himself for the hundredth time.

Cesar was tied outside the gate, he lifted the woman onto his dark back—she was naught but skin and bones—and mounted behind her, his arms sliding around her frame.

He kicked Cesar into life, the horse took off into a canter.

The night was lit orange and red by the flaming mass that was once the Opera Garnier. Once his home.

He heard the shouts of firemen and gendarmes as they tried to keep the crowds that were flocking around the fire under control, all the while searching for the elusive "Opera Ghost."

For the countless time that day, he swore he would kill the Vicomte.

XXX

Roxanne craned her head around the Phantom's arm to see the Opera Garnier. The flames rose to twice the height of the actual opera house!

She swiveled her head back around, hoping to memorize the roads that he took. She _would_ escape from him, but she knew that shouting for help right now was useless. With all of the panic and commotion in the district over the opera-fire, nobody would pay any attention to her.

Besides, even in her stage costume, she looked like a whore. No one paid attention to whores that were in trouble with well-dressed men.

The Phantom said something in the horse's ear in the middle-eastern tongue she had heard him use, earlier. He took his hands off of the reins, but the horse still stayed on course, even turned the corner.

She felt him feeling around in the saddlebags for something, she turned her head curiously.

He produced a black leather mask and a piece of cloth. After securing the mask about his face—much to Roxanne's relief—he commanded Roxanne to look straight ahead.

"Why?" She demanded hotly.

"You are in no position to be asking questions!" He snarled, "Now, do as I say!"

Roxanne swung her leg around and repositioned herself (almost falling off the horse in the process) to look directly at him, _"No!"_ At this point, Roxanne realized, she had nothing to lose. There was little doubt in her mind she would not live to see the dawn; the consequences of her actions would be of little matter, by then.

The Phantom growled, he produced a rope out of his jacket, "Very well, then, you little viper." He grabbed her wrists in one swift motion and tied her hands behind her back in one swift motion.

"Bastard!" Roxanne hissed as he tied the cloth around her eyes, she bit down on his hand as hard as she could.

The Phantom barely flinched, although his eyes burned a little brighter. He struck her across the face, "Woman, I don't intend to kill you. But don't push me, I'd happily reconsider my position."

She made a frustrated noise, rubbing her smarting cheek against her cold shoulder. She felt little cold feather-light brushes against her bare skin. Snow.

Cesar seemed impervious to the commotion and clashing of wills that had occurred on his back. He continued on his course; fastidiously obeying his master's orders.

The night was cold and Roxanne's thin, skimpy costume was hardly protection against the biting wind, which cut right through her clothing, chilling her to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter, much to her annoyance.

The Phantom continued to ride on, his costume was hardly better than her own; but, if he felt the temperature, he didn't show it.

As her sense of sight was no longer useful, her other senses took over in attempting to discover where she was. She noticed that the further they progressed, the more she felt the wind. They must heading towards the outskirts of Paris; the protective buildings of the city would have blocked the wind. She also noticed that the clatter of Cesar's horseshoes on the cobble-stoned road had gradually given way to a softer noise. Dirt roads. Yes, they were definitely leaving the city.

XXX

The moon shone clearly above him, casting illumination down on the rolling countryside of the Vallée de Chevreuse.

His captive had finally exhausted herself and had fallen asleep against his chest, much to his surprise.

They had been riding for over three and a half hours; Cesar was beginning to grow tired of maintaining the brisk trot the Phantom had kept him at, once they were out of the city.

The Phantom shook his head, he should have exercised Cesar more, these past few months, but he had been so distracted with _Don Juan_ and all the proper preparations for the opera.

He sighed in bitter frustration, _all for naught,_ he thought to himself.

They were about thirty kilometers outside of the city, coming up on the town of Chevreuse, he owned a small house about five kilometers outside of the town.

For the umpteenth time that night, his thoughts returned to Christine. Where had she been, when this imposter-woman was on the stage with him? What had she been thinking? Did she grieve for him, knowing his fate? Or was she impatiently waiting for his arrest, delighting in the idea that the monster whom she had suffered under all this time was soon to be dead?

He ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.

Most likely the latter, he told himself, bitterly, she had not loved him. She had pitied him, as one pities a starveling stray dog.

A sorrowful cry escaped his lips, _"Christine…"_ He whispered.

The woman stirred, muttering fitfully in her sleep.

His thoughts returned to her, what was he going to do with her? He certainly couldn't kill her, it would be wrong to kill a woman. It seemed…low, even for Erik.

He smiled amusedly, after all he had done in his life, he was still conflicted by killing a woman. Shameful.

Unexpectedly, as if the Muses had smiled upon him, an idea came to him. He looked down at the woman, incredulously. Perhaps, she would be of use, afterall…

XXX


	5. Victor's Right

XXX

Somehow she had fallen asleep against that _monster's_ chest, which was rather impressive. He smelled like…death. But she had slept through most of the ride, until she was abruptly awoken as she felt two long-fingered hands lifting her off of the horse.

Much to her protests, he swung her over his shoulder as if she were nothing.

She considered delivering a kick to his groin, but as she was bound and blind, that might have caused injury to herself, as well.

She heard the sound of snow crunching under his boots and that of a door opening. She could tell she was in a house, or building of some sort.

He dropped her onto a chaise lounge unceremoniously, removing her blindfold. "You will stay here, I will be back, soon," He lit a candle, and disappeared into another room.

Roxanne sat up, groggily observing her surroundings. She was in a parlor, of some sorts. The furnishings were dark, it was quite obvious that the owner was wealthy, it had been a long time since she was in a room so richly decorated.

Carefully rising—her balance was somewhat upset by having her hands bound behind her back—she walked around the room, observing everything.

Suddenly, a loud, jarring sound came from the other room; it was so loud that she jumped several feet in the air.

She cursed irritably, staring at the door her masked captor had disappeared behind.

The noise, she recognized, was that of a pipe organ. How weird.

The jarring note was followed by several more experimental strokes, and then someone began to play.

The song began softly, it was faint, weak, almost inaudible, but filled with so much misery that it made her ache. It was amazing, such a small, delicate noise could be filled with such emotion.

The music seemed to weave in and out about the air, like some sort of electric energy, like that before a storm.

Then it burst into life, loud movements that reeked of hate, betrayal, sorrow. Angry crescendos rose, followed by anguished crashes, it was like a squall at sea.

It was too much to bear; it hypnotized her, the melody infusing her with a strange sort of nervous energy. She wanted to weep, to scream, to fight. But most of all she wanted the music to stop; it was too beautiful. Too terrible It was not meant for human ears, no human could handle the full force of its emotion. She knew if she heard the song twice, it would drive her mad. Human hands did not engineer this song.

The song was building in volume and in emotion, and finally, in one great climax, it ended just as abruptly as it had begun.

Roxanne's chest heaved, she felt out of breath, dear God, had _he_ wrote that? Was he even human? Perhaps, he _was_ an angel, for it would take divine inspiration to make music like that. It was as if the sorrow of God had been channeled through that organ for a few fleeting minutes.

She collapsed on the lounge, running her fingers through her curly hair, flopping her head against the side.

In a few more minutes, the Phantom returned, he seemed more composed. More like the Opera Ghost that the rumors had spoken of, terrible and imperious, able to kill with one look.

He smirked, noticing the look on her face, "I see you heard Erik's music, eh? Did you like it?"

Roxanne paused; for some reason, she found the rhetorical question to be oddly disturbing.

"What is your name, girl?" He questioned, his lilting voice carefully nonchalant.

Her name? She wondered, dazedly, oh! Oh, yes, "R-Roxanne de Winter."

"Your accent is not French," He said, "Where are you from?"

Something about his voice was…compelling. Hypnotic. Why he was asking her all of these questions didn't occur to her, to refuse to answer was unthinkable. "I'm from England," She answered.

"Very well, Mademoiselle Roxanne de Winter of England, you are going to explain to me how and why you were on the stage in place of Christine Daaè," He placed his hands behind his back, felinely relaxed, staring at her expectantly.

Roxanne shook her head, as if coming out of a dream, she crossed her arms across her chest. "Why should I tell you?!" She demanded.

The Phantom made an irritated noise, "If you would like to live, then you ought to answer my questions."

Roxanne growled disgustedly, "Very well," she took a deep breath, "I work with the gendarmerie, doing espionage work, when needed. The Comte Philippe de Chagny contacted my superiors, explaining the threat of the Opera Ghost, who was terrorizing his younger brother's fiancée and was blackmailing the owners of the Opera Garnier.

"I'm unsure of how exactly it all worked out, but with the help of the Vicomte, the gendarmes set up a plan to capture you. I was to go on stage in place of Ms. Daaè and I was to keep you on stage long enough for the gendarmes to arrest you. They intended to arrest you just before the last scene, when you thought you had gotten away with it all. If pressed, they would have killed you.

"But during the "Point of No Return," I knew I had been found out, the look on your face on stage was impossible to misread. I panicked and pulled off your mask, hoping the gendarmes would do something—"

"—Hoping they would shoot me," The Phantom cut in, matter-of-factly.

"Well, yes," She said, staring at him curiously, gauging his reaction.

"You cannot read me, girl, so, give up, right now," He said, a small smile playing across his lips, "But, tell me, why is a young Englishwoman working with the gendarmerie in such a dangerous position?"

She stared at him stonily, not responding for several seconds, before finally opening her mouth, "Monsieur, what are you going to do to me?" She put her hands on her hips, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

The Phantom laughed, she wished he wouldn't, it was a dreadful noise, "Oh, my! You're quite the spitfire." He seemed to be genuinely amused by her, which only infuriated her all the more.

"I don't see what you find so funny, if anything, I would think you would be in a murderous rage or whatever scorned lovers are—"

"_Do not mistake my calm for serenity!"_ His voice seemed to come very everywhere in the room, Roxanne jumped. For a moment, his mask slipped and he seemed to be a different man, altogether, but only for a moment. He composed himself, adjusting his mask, "I must warn you, girl, if you are to keep your skin, you must learn to hold your tongue."  
That seemed to sound dangerously like she was to be in prolonged contact with this man…if he could be called that.

"But, I shall answer your question. I obviously cannot let you go—" He held up a hand for Roxanne to be silent, "—But I won't kill you, if you don't push me. I don't believe in killing women. However, if you prove yourself worthy, I may allow you to go free of my company."

She leapt up, spluttering angrily, "How dare you! What gives you the right to keep me here?"

"Victor's Right. I captured you; you are a prisoner of war," He explained in dulcet tones, he could have used this tone to make love to her instead of explain to her that she no longer was a free person.

"'Victor?'" She scoffed, "Your's is a position I would hardly call victorious. From where I stand it seems you barely escaped by the skin of your teeth!"

"Mademoiselle, I am in no mood for your impertinence," He ground out.

"I will explain to you the rules of our relationship, right now," He sat down on a chair and folded his hands together. "One: you are my subordinate. As long as you live in my house, you are my servant and will be treated as such. Two: you are not to leave this property without my permission. If you do so, you will soon find that the consequences to irritating me can be grave. Three: You hold no ties to your former life. Any contact from previous family members, lovers, or friends is strictly forbidden. Four: _never_ touch my masks or my music. If you touch my music, I will not hesitate to kill you."

She ground her teeth, "So I am to be your slave?"

"Well, yes. But, I will treat you kindly as long as you obey me. If you follow my orders to my satisfaction, then you will be rewarded with more freedoms. The more you obey me, the more freedoms I give you. The more you disobey me, the less freedoms you will have. Understood?"

"And what exactly am I to do as your slave?" She asked stiffly, crossing her legs.

"I will put your training to work…" He noticed her disgusted look, "…as a spy, for me."

Roxanne visibly relaxed, "And who am I to spy on?"

"The de Chagny family," He said with a smile, "Amongst a few odd jobs. You see, I have no wife or servants, and I am somewhat inept at domestic maintenance. Between lessons and the training I will put you through before I reintroduce you to the world, you will perform minor perfunctory household duties, preparing my meals—which are few and far apart—keeping the house clean, et cetera."

Roxanne was trying very hard to keep her temper under control. "So, you're just going to keep me here to do as you wish, as if I were nothing more than property?!"

"Mademoiselle de Winter, you have, no doubt, obtained many enemies in your line of work, and had to obtained some before that to be in alliance with the gendarmerie—for no socially secure woman would sink to such a position—I don't see why you have a problem with this. Your needs will be met, and I shall pay you handsomely for your…inconvenience. You shall find that I treat those who respect me with much generosity."

"But—" She began.

He held up his hand, once more, "Tut, tut, no more. This has been a long evening and no doubt, you are tired. Your room is on down the hall, there are several nightgowns in the wardrobe that should be about your size. Once you are decently dressed, however, I am afraid I must shackle you to your bed. You have exactly twenty minutes before I come to your quarters to do so." He waved for her to leave.

"You conceited son of a bitch!" She snarled, "I am not a child!"

"Really? I had not noticed. Now go, my patience wears thin," He gave her an icy stare that left her speechless.

With an infuriated sound, she stalked down the hallway.

XXX

Once she was gone, Erik exhaled a long breath; he went to the stand on the other side of the room and poured himself a very liberal amount of brandy. He collapsed in a chair, taking a long draught of the intoxicating substance.

He stared at the carpeted floor for a long time, not really thinking of anything. Just staring. He didn't want to think. If he began to think, then his thoughts would return to _her._ And that was something he _couldn't _do. Not with that walking reminder in the other room, a near-carbon copy of his sweet angel. It would be too tempting.

"Why didn't you run away that day in my lair?" His mind returned to the day Christine had pulled off his mask, she had braved his face! He remembered the words she had uttered, as if they had just escaped from her beautiful mouth: _'if ever again I shiver when I look at you, it will be because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius!'_

He ground his teeth, "Curse you, boy, why couldn't you have left her alone? You could have had any chorus girl you wanted, but you had to choose her. You had to choose the only woman who could ever stand to look at me."

With a frustrated cry, he threw his glass at the wall, it made a satisfactory noise as it shattered against the wall, splashing it's liquid all across the wallpaper.

Crying softly, he cradled his head in his hands, "Christine…Oh, God, I love you, even now, I love you, so much."

XXX


	6. Black Drop

XXX

The pale winter sun streamed through her window, onto her pillow.

Roxanne moaned and rolled over onto her stomach, snuggling into the soft pillow, licking her chapped lips. Her wrist was throbbing painfully, the fetters around it having rubbed the skin underneath raw.

At first, she was unsure of why she was in a foreign bed—chained to it, no less, but after a few moments her memory of the prior evening returned.

"Fuck," She swore, carefully kept the chain attached to the headboard lax, so as to keep the pain in her arm minimal. She looked around the room; she had not been able to take a good look at it the night before.

It was obvious the decorator was a minimalist, but a minimalist with good taste. The wallpaper was decorated with swirling patterns in crimson and scarlet, the brass bed-frame was decorated with porcelain fixtures with flowers painted on them, the hard-wood floor was covered in a rug.

For a recluse, she decided, he had good taste.

She shook the chain tied to her arm, how was she to get loose? _"Monsieur Fantôme!" _Roxanne yelled at the top of her lungs.

XXX

Erik lay sprawled across the sofa in his study, three empty bottles of Scotch beside him, and one barely-full one in his hand.

The heavy velvet drapes were drawn, leaving the room in almost complete darkness.

He tossed and turned uncomfortably, in a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. "Angel…" He murmured.

The afternoon quiet of the room was suddenly disrupted by a piercing scream, _"Monsieur Fantôme!"_

Erik's eyes flew open, he shot up off of the couch, a move he immediately regretted. "Ohhh…" He groaned, wobbling, feeling the full force of the repercussions of the amount of alcohol he had imbibed the evening before. Where on Earth had that awful noise from?

"_Fantôme!"_

"Ugh…" The throbbing in his skull intensified, he straightened his mask, he rolled over and put a pillow over his head, hoping the god-awful noise would go away.

"_Monsieur Fantôme!"_

Erik growled and rose from the couch, cursing in every language he knew (and several others he didn't). He flew out of the study, down the hallway to the young woman's room. There was going to be hell to pay.

He threw the door open, Roxanne sat on the bed, still in her nightgown, she was tugging at the chain he had fastened around her wrist the night before.

"Well, it's about bloody time!" She huffed, attempting to cross her arms, but the fetter restraining her. She would have looked comical if Erik were not so angry.

"Mademoiselle, are you bleeding?" He enquired, his voice in a deadly calm.

"No…"

"Have you been attacked?"

"Aside from you, no…"

"Burned? Beaten? Bludgeoned? Hmm?"

"No."

"Then, I suggest you _be quiet!"_ He snarled, advancing towards her menacingly in the best manner he could manage considering how dreadfully hung-over he was.

She crossed her arms, she seemed to be trying her best not to appear intimidated, "Well, Monsieur le Fantôme, if you had not chained me to a bed, I would have no reason to scream."

Erik groaned, "Well, Mademoiselle de Winter, if you gave me a reason to think you would not attack me the second I unchained you, then I would not have done so."

"You impossible man! Unchain me this instant!"

Clenching his jaw—which only worsened his headache—he produced the key out of his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs around her wrist. He could not help noticing how thin the material of the night-gown was and how it flattered her figure. Ugh. He shook his head, disgustedly, "Pleased, mademoiselle?"

"Improved, at least," Roxanne said with a curt nod, "Thanks."

Erik rose—wobbling slightly, feeling rather dizzy from his headache—and started to leave the room.

"Oi, what's the matter with you?" She demanded, rising off of the bed and grabbing a silk kimono hanging on the side of the wardrobe and wrapping it around her.

"If you must know, I have a headache," He snapped, not totally willing to admit how much he had drunk the night before. He began to walk forward but was still a little wobbly. Damn it, what was the matter with him?

"Do you have any peppermint tea?" Roxanne asked.

Erik shrugged, "I haven't been here in ages, I haven't the slighest clue. Now, if you will excuse me…"

"Peeled apple, Chamomile tea and three aspirins."

"What?"

"Peel an apple and eat it, drink a cup of chamomile tea, take three asprins and go to bed," Roxanne said matter-of-factly, "It will help."

"I sincerely doubt it could fix this headache, Mademoiselle," Erik said mildly and began to leave the room.

She tsked her tongue in a fashion that was much too female-esque for Erik.

He rolled his eyes and left the room, it was going to be very strange to get used to living with a woman—much less _this_ woman.

XXX

Roxanne watched his back as he left; she shrugged and closed the door after him.

She was still in shock over last night's events, not only was she a captive for an indefinite amount of time, but she was being held captive by a supposed ghost. An Opera ghost, no less.

Shaking her head, Roxanne went to where the pile of clothing she had shed, the night before, lay. Kneeling down, she rifled through them before finding the small bottle she had concealed under her skirt.

The laudanum sloshed in the bottle, she bared her teeth in a feral smile, tempted to uncork the bottle and down it. Yes, she preferred to smoke opium, but the laudanum was all she was able to afford, of late.

Also, she had to be careful, she had no clue what the Phantom would do if he knew, and there was no place she could get any more. She would have to ration the intoxicating liquid.

Her heart leapt into her throat, the full force of the statement hit her.

Undoubtedly, she was going to run out before she was released from this prison. That meant an eventual withdrawal process.

"Shit," She muttered, shuddering. Perhaps the good Phantom kept laudanum or pipe-opium somewhere in the house. She made a note to rifle through the house when he was next asleep.

For the time being, she was going to have to use the precious stuff, wisely. But, fuck it all, at the moment, all she wanted was oblivion.

With firm resolve, Roxanne uncorked the bottle, taking a long draught, and waited for the effects to make themselves known.

XXX

A/N: Laudanum is basically liquid opium, opium is basically the predecessor of heroin; they're both in the same family of drugs. Apologies for the delay.


	7. The Wound

_Dear Patient and Long-Suffering Readers:_

_On behalf of myself and my muse, I extend my humble apologies for leaving this story in such a weird place for such a long period of time. Things have been insane here, and I really didn't have much clue as to what to do next, however, I'm bored and lonely so, who better to write about than le Fantôme?_

_Rowena_

XXX

She had spent the entirety of her first day in the house in her room. She was thirsty and starving, as she hadn't eaten the day before. The laudanum had helped with that, keeping her unaware to her surroundings and she had scarcely felt the hunger cramps.

Unsurprisingly, Erik did not seek her out.

Night had fallen, and the effects of the laudanum had worn off. After having waken from the long trance that the 'black drop' had held her in, Roxanne had found her hunger had returned with a vengeance.

Initially, she had tried to ignore it, tossing and turning in the bed; but she was so thirsty she was beginning to feel nauseated. She heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike midnight, then one o'clock...then two...

Sighing, Roxanne threw the quilt off of her and crept to the door, which she found locked. How dare he! Fury bubbled up within her, but she quickly repressed it and knelt down to the door. Would a hairpin work? Feeling around in her thick mass of hair, she plucked a pin out of her hair and, with practiced expertise, inserted it into the lock, fiddling around for the moment, muttering something about the tumblers, she felt the click and stood.

Carefully pushing the door open, taking pains to make sure it did not creak, she slid down the hall towards the kitchen.

Moonlight and shadow danced along the wall-papered wall of the kitchen, something sparkled along the floor, but Roxanne did not notice it.

"Oh, god!" She hissed, stepping back quickly, sharp pain bloomed in her foot. Feeling along the bottom of her foot, she felt a sharp piece of glass shoved into her foot, dark liquid glistened in the half-light.

Hopping around the glass, she grabbed a towel that had been tossed carelessly on the counter and hopped up on the counter, quietly cursing.

"What'd you do in here?" She muttered to no one in particular as she grabbed a pitcher half-full of brandy that had been sitting there for God-knows-how-long and dipped the hand-towel in it. Biting the inside of her mouth, Roxanne took the hand-towel and using it as a protective glove, slowly pulled the long shard out of her foot. She tossed the glass into the sink beside her, and gingerly began to dab at her foot.

"Bloody...kill...ugh..." Roxanne muttered indistinctly, she looked up to grab the pitcher but to her shock found a pair of gold circles just a few inches from her face.

"May I enquire as to what you are doing in my kitchen at such an hour?" the Phantom leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"May I enquire as to why the fuck would you leave broken glass in the middle of your floor?" Roxanne growled, her voice high and tight from pain, her skirt and hands were now covered in blood.

The Phantom sighed, she could almost_ hear_ him rolling his eyes in the darkness, "Stupid girl, come here." Grabbing the towel, he picked her up--much to her protests--and with something less than suaveness carried her out of the kitchen.

Roxanne was wiser than to protest, she had no desire to limp to her room in this state, throwing blood everywhere and then try and find a bandage. "Where are you going?" Roxanne demanded.

"Silence, your voice is like gravel to my ears," the Phantom instructed tersely.

Roxanne would have slapped him, had she not been in such pain. "God...it's deep."

"You should have looked where you were going. Or, rather, you should have stayed in your room instead of picking the lock," the Phantom looked down at her with wry amusement.

"This...isn't funny," Roxanne breathed, "I..."

"Hush," the Phantom commanded impatiently, "When you speak, your blood pressure goes up, which makes the bleeding worse."

He took her into a darkened, windowless room and sat her in a shallow box-like thing, a little longer than the length of a man, the lining was silky. She propped the curve of her ankle on the side of the box so the blood would go onto the floor instead of the silky material.

"How bad is the pain?" The Phantom enquired, she heard shuffling around and the moving of papers, something wooden opening and closing.

"Painful," Roxanne giggled manically, she was beginning to feel a little light-headed, "The world is beginning to spin. Ooh, my, I'd normally have to pay a pretty penny to feel this queer."

"So, no morphine," he said flatly.

She continued to laugh, "Ahh, bastard."

XXX

Erik sighed, the damn thick-headed girl, the cut _was_ deep. He had encountered worse, but on her foot, it would be hell to keep it from getting infected and gangrenous. Though he did derive some small pleasure from the idea of cutting the girl's foot off...

Erik grabbed a handful of bandages and went to the coffin.

The girl was incredibly pale, her face was locked in a grimace of pain. "Hurry up, damn it!" Her voice was thick, as if she were fighting back tears.

Muttering indistinctly, Erik knelt at the foot of the coffin, his hand ghosted across her ankle but he quickly pulled it back as if it were white-hot. The impropriety of the situation was not lost upon him, despite his lack of normal social interaction. "This will hurt," He explained to her, "But if you kick me, I will make it hurt worse. Understood?" He could not help but feel a combination of guilty pleasure and discomfort at this position. He had not even _seen_ Chrinstine's ankles before.

"Get it over with," Roxanne growled tersely.

Taking the bottle of hydrogen peroxide beside him, he poured the clear liquid over the wound, it hissed and bubbled merrily as it went to work disinfecting.

"Oi, you'll ruin the floor if you keep on doing that," Using her free foot, the girl bumped his shoulder reproachfully.

He looked up at her quizically, of all the things to be worried about at a moment like this, she was worried about the _floor?_ Perhaps women were more incomprehensible than he had originally presumed.

"Ooh, that stuff ticles...ow! It's starting to burn! What is that stuff?" She yelped.

"Hush," Erik pitched his voice to its hypnotic level and she complied instantaneously. Softly, he began to sing; an old Persian love song. The women of the Shah's harem sang it frequently, he would hear them sometimes as he was working.

This seemed to calm her; he could hear her breathing become more even and rhythmic, he felt the pounding of her blood where his fingertips were begin to calm.

Continuing to sing, he tied a strip of cloth around her ankle to cut of the circulation and help ease the bleeding. He cleaned up the blood to a manageable level with a few cloths and some water, using the last of a salve Nadir had given him some years ago to fight any infection, he concluded with wrapping the foot tightly with gauze.

"Be more careful in the future...Mademoiselle de Winter?" He looked up.

Her face was tucked into the curve of her arm, her body lax; he was able to tell she was still very pale, but she looked slightly better.

He sighed in annoyance, he should have kept her tied up. The girl was cleverer than she looked, and in all the most inconvenient ways.

He stood, dusted himself off, he looked down at the girl, studying her features.

She turned in her sleep, showing her face once more, even in sleep she frowned. "Andrew..." The word was barely loud enough to be heard; her face contorted into a mask of pain.

For a moment, Erik was taken aback, the plaintiveness in her voice was rather surprising. He would not have originally thought she had enough depth or experience to know such sorrow as her voice suggested.

Turning, Erik reluctantly left his bedroom and the curious girl sleeping in it.

As he was walking, he hummed a few bars of nothing in particular. The cold winter sun was just beginning to break over the hills, in the distance he saw a few horses pawing at the frozen ground, which was covered in a thin layer of snow.

"Why does my heart cry..." He sang softly as he walked along; suddenly he stopped in his tracks. A faint whisper of an idea ran through him. After several months of being creatively dry, it was as welcome as water to a desert.

Decisively, he turned and walked back into his bedroom, where his organ waited like an old lover.

XXX

"No! No! This is all wrong!"

Roxanne's eyes fluttered open, she moaned, her foot felt like it had had a nail driven into it. Why was that? Oh...right. Kitchen. Glass. Monsieur le Fantôme. Ugh.

Her dreams had been very strange, filled with music. The most beautiful and haunting organ pieces, the sensation had been similar to the first night when Monsieur le Fantôme had brought her in and played the music. She was unsure as to whether or not it was a good dream or a nightmare. It had been filled with spinning images, some of things she had never seen, some of Andrew, of her parents, various places in the English countryside, of the Opera Garnier in flames.

She stretched felinely and looked around her, with a strange detached sense of horror she realized she was in a coffin. Carefully avoiding the bits of sheet music, empty bottles and various debris strewn across the floor, she stepped out of the coffin, hopping around on one foot.

"I'm most impressed you stayed asleep for so long," The Phantom commented without looking up from his music, he was seated at a beautiful pipe organ in the corner of the room, he was unshaven and looked as if he had not slept for some time.

Roxanne stared at him warily, "I'm a heavy sleeper by training."

"How is your foot?" He enquired absently, scratching away at a piece of parchment.

"Hurts like a bitch, but I'll live," Roxanne replied unsurely.

"Good. Can you walk on it?"

"Yeah, with some effort."

"Lovely. Then after you eat and wash-up or whatever you women do in the mornings, there's work to be done," He looked over his shoulder, "It will be a long day."

Hands on her hips, Roxanne made a noise of indignation, "Allow me to clarify, due to _your_ carelessness in leaving dangerous objects about, I injure myself, and your response is to put me to work cleaning up _your_ mess?"

"No. Due to _your_ defiance at my orders to stay in your room, and _your_ carelessness you were injured. _My_ response to this was to clean and dress your injury, and then continue on as normal. Normal being the agreement that if you prove yourself to me as a trustworthy individual, I will release you," He said all of this in a tired tone, as if talking to a rather slow child.

Throwing her hands up in the air, she made a noise of frustration and hobbled out of the room.

As soon as she had left the room, she heard his awful, mocking laughter.

"You want a maid? Ha, fine, then, I'll be your maid. You may regret it, though," Roxanne smirked, yes, she would comply, but not in the way he expected.

XXX


	8. Mischievous Maid

**A/N: **Two chapters in two days?! Amazing! I get to develop a little bit on Roxanne's slightly more street-wise and cold/calculating nature in this chapter. Woot!

XXX

Erik stared in open-mouthed horror at his bedroom/office. What had she done in here?

"_De Winter!"_ He thundered, using his best Phantom-voice.

Roxanne hurried into the room, her face the picture of innocence, "Yes, Monsieur le Fantôme?"

"I did not tell you to do this," Erik snarled, gesturing wildly to the rest of the room.

"Yes, you did. You told me to clean," Roxanne said artlessly, "And so I did."

"Well, yes, but I did not tell you to clean in _here!_" Erik was growing more and more irritated. He absolutely knew that Mademoiselle de Winter had done this intentionally to annoy him.

"And you haven't specifically told me to clean _any _particular room," Roxanne crossed her arms over her chest, "Besides, now that it's clean I imagine you can _finally_ get some work done doing…whatever the hell it is you do."

"Ugh!" Erik growled, "Pray you did not throw any of my sheet music away…"

"Only the scribbled-out, crumpled up ones, and the ones that had stains on them," Roxanne said nonchalantly.

Erik turned a shade lighter—an impressive feat, given his coloring—he stared at her a moment, as if he did not have the capacity to comprehend her words. _"Just because they were that way does not mean they were trash!"_ He shouted, his voice echoed off the walls, so loud that Roxanne stepped backwards unsurely. "Where. Are. They," He ground out, wringing the piece of paper in his hands so hard that he tore it in two.

Roxanne stared at the two pieces of parchment and gulped, "I, uh, burned them."

"You did _what?!"_ Erik screeched.

"Well, monsieur, what else was I supposed to do with the trash?" She looked at him through lidded-green eyes that seemed to sparkle with sadistic amusement.

"Oh, you _wretch!"_ Erik felt as if he were about to be ill, his music! That little viper had _destroyed his music!_

"I suggest that next time you give me orders you be a little more specific about it, Monsieur le Fantôme."

Before Erik could find his lasso Roxanne had disappeared from the room.

XXX

Roxanne sat in the window seat of the study with the curtains drawn about her, she giggled madly, her hand clapped over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Oh, Christ! The look on his face was almost too good to bear! It seemed as if very few people had really taken the time to irritate 'Monsieur le Fantôme,' which made her terrorizing all the more pleasurable.

Though she did not fool herself into thinking she was stronger or more intelligent than the Phantom, she certainly played on a much different level than he.

"Where did you put the _Luna de Aria?"_ Erik yelled from the other room.

"Pardon, Monsieur?" Roxanne called back with false confusion.

"Luna de Aria!"

"Loony's Area?"

She heard him say something in a foreign language that probably was not a praise of her beauty or intelligence. Oh, _god,_ she loved this man.

Taking in a deep breath, she composed herself, she had only taken a small break to catch her breath. With a small, supercilious smile playing across her lips, she rose and went to the kitchen to make dinner.

She opened up the cupboards and stared with her hands on her hips. What the hell did the man eat?

One cupboard was filled entirely with various expensive liquors in foreign names she did not recognize. The other was filled with various chemicals that looked more like they belonged in a laboratory, rather than a home.

Stalking down the hallway to the bedroom, she threw the door open, hands on her hips, she demanded, "Monsieur, are you breathing at the moment?"

Erik looked up from his organ and stared at her as if she had grown another head, "Why, yes, Mademoiselle, I do. Does this displease you?"

"Your heart is currently beating, yes?"

"Last I checked."

"You have a pulse?"

"Get to the point."

"Then you must eat dust or ink because there is absolutely nothing in that kitchen fit for a good meal," Roxanne scowled at him, "When was the last time you ate?"

"What is the point of this? I cannot remember," Erik said impatiently turning back to his music.

"Although I'd be very happy to watch you die a slow death, I have absolutely no idea where I am, so, if you died, I'd be all alone in the middle of nowhere. You need to eat," she commanded with the authoritative manner of a stern mother hen.

Erik rolled his eyes impatiently, "After living under the opera house for so long, my eating habits are slightly different than the average non-subterranean human. It is of no consequence to you how I nourish myself."

"Like hell it is; by your own words, I'm your housekeeper. That gives me a certain degree of authority on how the house is run. Therefore, I need supplies. If you don't want to go into town, give me a few baskets and let me go into the forest and find _something."_

"That's out of the question."

"Then let me give you a list and you go into the local village to buy some canned goods and meat," Roxanne countered.

"I'm too busy for such things," Erik waved a hand dismissively.

Roxanne rolled her eyes heavenwards, pleading the saints for an additional measure of patience. Sighing, Roxanne lifted her leg over the bench and seated herself sideways, facing Erik, her legs spread with a casual, but practiced, disregard. "Monsieur, though _you_ may not need normal nutrition, _I_ do. I have not eaten anything worth mentioning in three days. If I die because of malnutrition, I will most certainly come back to haunt you and will make sure that you never write another note again."

Erik looked over at her, confusion written across the half of his face that she _could_ see. Sighing and shaking his head, he acceded, "Very well, if it means you will leave me alone to my music. There is probably something pickled in the cupboards below the sink, tomorrow morning I will go into the village and buy a few things. You will stay here, however."

Roxanne smiled, "And you will eat with me."

Erik snorted, a little bark of a laugh, "Go away."

Temporarily appeased, she went off to her room with a few pieces of parchment she had managed to snatch from his study. She spent the remainder of her evening in her room making flowers out of paper and disinterestedly playing with her hair. Finally, boredom overtook her and she fell asleep.

Much to her delight, Erik had returned with the list of food she had written last night, before she had even woken up.

He had come into her room at about seven o'clock and nudged her awake, "Lazy girl. Wake up!"

"Bastard. Leave me alone," She rolled over an covered her head with her pillow.

"Very well, then," Running his icy-cold hands through her hair, he grabbed a handful at the crown of her head and pulled her up by it.

She shrieked, clawing at his arm, "All right, all right! I'm awake, you son of a bitch!"

"Such language!" Erik purred, "Very unladylike." He smirked and released her, she plopped back down on the bed. "Particularly directed at your elder, who left the sanctity of his quiet abode just to feed you."

Roxanne grinned widely, "Food! Thank you!" She threw her arms around him and blithely kissed him on his bared cheek; with that she hopped up, disregarding her lack of proper clothing and darted out of the room to the kitchen.

XXX

He stared after her, completely dumbfounded, with his hand pressed to his cheek, where her lips had been just a few moments before.

He had…never been kissed before—and how casually she had done so! As if she thought nothing of kissing such a hideous creature!

Still shell-shocked, he slowly walked out of the room to the kitchen, curiously watching her as she scurried about, anxiously looking at all of the food he had brought.

Going into the village had scarcely been a hard task, the villagers were all terrified of him and allowed him to come and go as he pleased. He did, however, pay them for the food.

The foods she had asked for had been basic and easy enough to procure—dried meats, eggs, bread, a few pickled vegetables, a boatload of canned foods, and so fourth.

He leaned against the doorframe as Roxanne scurried about the kitchen, organizing various foods in the cupboards.

"You want breakfast?" She demanded gruffly, looking up and pushing a lock of hair out of her face.

Erik paused. Breakfast? He _was_ a little hungry. Actually, the more he thought about it, he was starving; God knows when the last time he had eaten was. "Yes," He said simply.

"Good, 'cause I was going to force it down your skinny throat if you said otherwise," Roxanne grinned wickedly and went to work making up fried eggs, bacon, and buttered toast.

Erik watched in fascination as she bustled and limped on her bad foot around the kitchen with a strange sort of purpose. Her delight at performing such a menial task was very strange to him—so easily entertained, like a child.

"Oi, breakfast's ready," She prodded him as she set down a plate and a glass of milk.

Unsurely, he bit into the eggs; he had to concede they were very good. His hunger got the better of him; he quickly polished off the plate even faster than Roxanne, who had an appetite that would rival most men.

"You want some more?" Roxanne asked casually, "I'm still hungry."

Erik nodded slowly, "Please."

"Brilliant!" Roxanne grinned and quickly cracked two eggs onto the skillet, she looked over her shoulder at him, "What exactly are you doing, always locked away in your bedroom?"

Erik stared at the glass she had set before him earlier, "I'm a composer."

Roxanne laughed, "I gathered that. What are you composing?"

"Why do you want to know?" Erik asked guardedly.

"Because I want to steal all of your scores, publish them under the name of my dead husband and make a fortune living as a reclusive transvestite," Roxanne said with a solemn nod.

"Then why should I tell you?" He asked confusedly.

"Because I'm joking," Roxanne laughed.

Erik did not quite comprehend the joke, but he explained, anyway, "I have not composed anything worth the effort for more than six months. So, I suppose you could say I am not composing at all."

"So, that's why you're so mean all the time," Roxanne commented.

Erik laughed, "No, Erik is 'mean' because Erik is not human."

"_Erik_ is as human as I am," Roxanne said with a scornful laugh.

"I see you have already forgotten that night at the Opera-house," He said with a slightly menacing smile.

"I haven't," She said, annoyance tingeing her voice, "You're not a good man, but just because you're indecent doesn't mean you're not a man."

Erik stared at her curiously, he was unsure as to how to respond to that. Normally, he was very in control of the situation, but this mere girl's bluntness and lack of fear was something he had not encountered before.

"Are you not afraid of Erik?" He enquired curiously.

She took the eggs off the fire and stared at him, probably wondering if it was a trick question.

"I am wary of Erik, yes, I think you're dangerous. But, eh, there's a fine line between dangerous and amoral," She said, handing him a plate.

"Can one be amoral without being dangerous?" He said with a sneer.

Roxanne paused, she sat down, folding her hands under her chin, pondering. "Danger is a question of power. Amorality is a question of what you do with that power. A spoiled little boy can be amoral. A priest can be dangerous…" she trailed off, lost in thought; she looked up, laughing lightly, "…That was stupid of me. I'm sorry."

"I thought it was quite intelligent," Erik replied with his ghastly smile.

"Oh…" she bit her lip, embarrassed.

Erik cleared his throat nervously, "How many days have we been here?"

"Almost a week…I think."

"Today, I will let you go outside," he said decisively.

"Eh?" She looked up in surprise.

"Not out of benevolence, I assure you," he said with a chuckle, "I have a job for you."

Her expression darkened, she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, "What kind of job?"

XXX

"Narcissistic prick," Roxanne snarled, shoveling yet another lump of horse manure into the wheelbarrow.

He had set her to clearing out Cesar's stall, which was essentially a converted shack behind the house that was in _desperate_ need of a good mucking out.

Cesar was tied up to a post beside the shack, he whickered to her curiously, as if wishing to ask her what she was doing in his home and why he was required to wait out in the wind as she did it.

"Bastard. Bastard. Bastard."

She liked to consider herself smarter than to consider running away, despite the notion's allure. Besides, a thought had come to her as she was falling asleep: perhaps…being kidnapped was in her best interests.

In being a prostitute…particularly an observant one…she had come to acquire a small but nicely sum of people who would much prefer her to be dead than alive. A few of them knew that she had escaped the dungeons by going to work for the gendarmerie. So, the past year she had been working with them had been _very_ uncomfortable. If she were to be believed to be dead, then most of her problems would go away, that, and here—despite the fact she was living with a tyrannical bastard—she was safe, warm, and fed.

The Phantom's words came to her from the first night that he had brought her here. He had accurately guessed her reasons for being with the gendarmerie, saying that there would be little difference now from when she was working with them. She had to grudgingly concede that he had been correct.

The freezing weather made the manure hard to get up, so she had twice as much effort in trying to get the floor clean, the straw had molded from all the moisture and the fact that it had not been clean in ages.

However, the physical exertion kept her reasonably warm, and the occasionally chilling wind that whipped through kept her awake and coherent.

She was starting to feel a little crabby from not having laudanum in two days. She shouldn't have drained the entire bottle. Damned glutton that she was, she knew that she was going to suffer for it, later on.

The longest she had gone in three years without opium was two weeks. She had had to hide while one of her former 'clients' was looking for her. Of course she presumed that all of his reasons for trying to find the woman he was cheating on his lovely-and-much-wealthier-than-he wife were _entirely _friendly, but she just was not one who was much for reunions. Particularly with an arms dealer to the underground.

That had been hell. She had never felt worse in her life and she had experience more discomfort than she cared to admit in her short years. Thankfully, there had been no one at the abandoned mill that she had been squatting in to witness her pain. Now she had the Opera Ghost. God knows what he would do to her if he found out she was addicted.

Her thoughts dwelled on the Opera Ghost. He had been almost…tolerable, this morning. Yes, tolerable, he had been cordial, with the exception of his rude wake-up call, he had been cordial and decent to her. His conversation was interesting, if a bit eccentric.

She wondered if, in the period of time that she stayed with him that they might strike up a friendship.

The thought made her pause, friendship? With…that _monster?_ Roxanne, you little fool! Despite the fact that his kidnapping her was ultimately to her benefit, he was a cold, insufferable man. Even if she _did_ want his friendship, he was far too haughty to give it to her.

But how were such men broken? She thought on this for several minutes. A slow smile graced her lips.

You threaten such men's masculinity and all of their bravado disappears. Behind his arrogant, cocky manner, was a very inexperienced man; she was absolutely certain of it. To control the situation, she would need to remember her lessons.

One thing she would have to remember was to _not_ let him intimidate her. She would give him one thing: he was _excellent_ at theatrics. She could do to learn a lesson from him, all of his power was in his ability to manipulate people's perceptions. By removing him from his beloved Opera Garnier and his _ange de musique _he was now out of his comfort zone. He was vulnerable.

Yes, Roxanne thought, perhaps this situation very truly _could_ work to her advantage. Though he may be impotent without his opera house, he was certainly _very_ wealthy, and she was the spitting image of his angel.

Thusly, she spent her afternoon shoveling and plotting.


End file.
